


Honest, I Do

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 00:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: A commission for a friend.The successful au Rusty we saw for .5 seconds in season four gets married to his hunky bodyguard.





	Honest, I Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [danvssomethingorother](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danvssomethingorother/gifts).



> A little bit of Soft(tm) porn in this.

 

**Noon.**

 

It had been Brock’s idea, surprisingly. The New York Public Library, ornate in its endless knowledge, rented out for a day for an undisclosed sum. That’s Venture money. It’ll get you anything.

It’ll get you someone dusting off the books, the shelves that seem to reach to oblivion. It’ll get white orchids descending a powder-blue lattice from the ceiling. Voile hanging from the rafters, braided loosely by hand. 

It’s hard not to feel giddy, peering out from behind the doorway in his dressing robe. 

“Pretty nice, huh?” Pete calls to him, eager for praise as he lint-rolls the tuxedo that hangs on the door. “Took us all morning to hang those…”

“By _ us  _ you mean--”

“He  _ means _ ,” Billy interjects, “he told Shore Leave where to staple the decorations while he sat on his ass making a playlist.”

“A playlist for _ your _ reception, Rust.” 

“No bickering,” Rusty scolds, gentle and with a grin on his face. “It’s my _ special day _ .”

They roll their eyes. His best men. 

He fixates on his reflection, steadily buttoning his white shirt all the way up to his collar. Perfectly starched and pressed. He thought he’d be a lot more worried about that. Perfection. But that morning, when he woke up, messy beside his betrothed, he realized he’d be happy marrying him even with his worst bedhead. 

He runs a hand over his neatly-parted hair.

People expect fanfare. They expect the event of the century, and Rusty’s not above enjoying the attention. He’s not above appearing in photos, glowing with joy, being the talk of the town. He’ll see himself on the cover of People magazine, looking shrimpy in his fiance’s-- his  _ husband’s _ arms. The thought of it makes him ball up his fists, crack his knuckles, his toes. It’s like a dirty word. A privileged word. And he gets to use it.

Is this what they mean when they say ‘top of the world?’ 

 

**Two PM.**

 

Feeling small has never been so nice. In his youth, to feel small was to feel threatened, helpless. At the mercy of whatever monster had him in its clutches. His father included.

But now, standing across from a man who dwarfs him, he feels safe. He can’t stop smiling, and it makes his cheeks ache in a way that had been so unfamiliar until the last few years. Until they’d owned up to it. Until they’d shared a drink and that damn song,  _ You Send Me _ , came on the radio, and they’d danced themselves into irrevocable love. He still tells that story, no matter how many times his friends, his sons, his employees, have heard it. He’ll even tell it to Brock.  _ Remember that night? Did you know I was nervous? _

Hunter stands between them, fumbling with the prepared script.

“Fuck it,” in that lovable growl. “Dr. Venture, do you promise to make an honest man out of Samson?”

He answers  _ yes _ , and it goes on accordingly. But he barely hears it. He only hears how his heart pounds, only sees the bashful smile on Brock’s face.

And then he’s kissed, and so sweetly, to the sound of cheering. Those thick arms keep him from melting to the floor.

 

**Four PM.**

 

There’s light music playing in the lobby for the cocktail hour.  _ A Case of You _ , sprinkling gently through the chatty crowd, and the two of them stay huddled around the corner.

“C’mon, Doc, we’ve gotta go meet our public,” Brock says, a growlish mumble into his neck as he envelops him ever-so gently from behind. His body betrays his words, the warmth that emanates from his barrel chest and the way his thick fingers curl around Rusty’s thin arms.

“They can wait,” he insists, turning in that embrace, tossing his hands over Brock’s sturdy shoulders. “We’ve got a marriage to consummate.”

“Jeeze, you make it sound like a chore.”

Rusty chuckles and drags his hands down Brock’s tie. He was never very good at the sweet talk. 

“Is that a  _ no? _ ”

Brock lets out a thoughtful, if hungry, hum, and abruptly lifts Rusty into his arms, strapping his thighs around his hips to carry him away. Rusty, practically squealing in delight, descends upon that strong, thick neck with kisses, mumbling _ I love yous _ that won’t echo through the dark corridor.

He’s always liked it this way. Half-clothed. Desperate. His glasses askew against the wall of some closet, his pants dragged down to his ankles. He whines in sweet pain, feeling Brock’s finger push at him, spread him, stretch him. Those hands are capable of so much death, and yet here, amidst the gasping and groaning, they save his life. They always do. Despite his success, Rusty still finds himself, at times, slavish to his horrifying memory. Teetering on the edge of despair, only for Brock to reel him back in.

He  _ affirms _ him. Rusty grins to hear the unbuckling of a belt, gleeful from the knowledge he’s about to be so dearly destroyed. The  _ sounds _ his love makes...it’s like being conquered.  

He giggles, too, to hear the popping of a plastic bottle.

“You came prepared, darling?” Rusty mewls, almost accusatory.

“Yeah, Doc, we got a marriage to consummate…”

 

**Five PM.**

 

They’re met with another cheer as they enter the lobby, hopefully looking not so disheveled that everyone can tell.

Well, White can tell, as evidenced by his cackling as he stands behind the turntable. But swiftly he calms, sets a new record upon the device, and starts spinning.

It’s a convoy of hugs as Rusty and Brock make their way through the crowd to the bar. His friends, his sons, some tears on their tuxedo jackets. The Action Man slaps him so hard on the back he just about falls over. And all the while, Rusty beams. It is exactly how they say it feels. It’s the best day of your life, even if it’s not. There is nothing so thrilling and full of elation. 

Flashbulbs blind them as they finally arrive at the bar for their champagne. It’ll be all over the news. 

They toast against the loud roar of the room, against the blasting of Duran Duran and the straggling cheers of their well-wishers. They maintain eye contact as they sip their drinks, eyes watery with joy. The alcohol slopes their shoulders, soothes the nerves they did not know they had.

And then the dancing begins.

 

**Six PM.**

 

White’s left the playlist to carry itself out, and the whole Venture gang is clustered on the dancefloor like kids in middle school. Arms around each other, tipsy smiles alight, needing to yell to be heard.

The room seems to shimmer with love. In pairs and in groups. Rusty wants to weep, he’s just so beside himself. To think, a man like him could have a love like this, a family like this. A man like him could bring people together, into a room, and make them happy. If his father were here…

No. He doesn’t want to even think about whatever vague look of disappointment he’d have on his face. He wants to think about his new husband, swinging a giggling Dean around to the sounds of Benny Goodman. He wants to think about his punch-drunk in love friends, dancing so close you’d think it was  _ their _ goddamn wedding. He wants to think about Hank, charming his lady friend with the most god-awful dancing he’s ever seen.

It’s a bit like rebellion, feeling this way. It’s as if he stares his childhood in the face and holds up his middle finger with pride. He wishes he could tell that frightened little boy, _ one day it won’t be so bad. People will love you and a man will save your life. Your father will have nothing to do with it _ . 

But he’s bid himself not to cry, so he shakes his head and shuffles over to Brock dancing with his son. Now Brock’s stepson. Imagine that…

“May I cut in?” he shouts over the roaring music. Dean gives him an exaggerated bow as he makes his exit. As Brock takes Rusty’s hands in his he smiles, leans down to speak into his ear.

“I haven’t tossed you around enough today, huh?”

And they dance, and the room erupts into gleeful cheering again. All that time producing on Broadway has given him a few lessons in rhythm. 

It’s helped him understand why someone might want to burst into song.

 

**Eight PM.**

 

Their bellies full with dinner and cake, the dancing starts up again, but slow. And when the music cuts, they look to the turntables. White grins into a microphone.

“I think it’s time for their first dance as husband and husband, huh?” he teases, urging some clapping out of the guests. “C’mon fellas, cut a rug.”

He winks as he sets the needle down once more. It’s hardly the sort of song one can swing to as wildly as before.

It’s slow and moody. It’s  _ You Send Me _ , Sam Cooke’s voice so melodious and pure. Rusty’s mouth hangs open in a grateful awe at his friend. But his dreamy thankfulness is interrupted as he’s swept into Brock’s arms. He looks up at him with a gaze like no other. Like his eyes can make up for all the sweet talk over which he fumbles.

But they can whisper, here. In the center of a room, the center of attention, and yet no one can hear them coo into one another’s necks.

“I love you, Doc.”

“You’re really still going to call me that?”

“You like it.”

“Mm…”

  
  


**Eleven PM.**

 

They share their last drink in the quiet of the indoor balcony that overlooks the lobby. Drunken and giddy, their guests still dance like they’re all as young as his sons.

And despite his good health, Rusty knows he’s not the spry young thing he used to be. He only laments that it took him this long to find the person that makes him feel young inside. Teenage and green, each and every time they touch. He knows, even now, on their first night being wed, that it will never go away. The sensation is too electric to fade. The way he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder and his spine feels loose for the first time. His lungs fill with the freshest air, each and every time. It’s a little surreal, and not just because he’s turned his blood to champagne. This man, so burly and beautiful, bidding him to come to bed in their rented room.

And it’s always so good. It’s always just so goddamn  _ good,  _ getting tossed onto a mattress and climbed like a vine, having his thin body utterly enveloped. Clawing at Brock’s back and shoulders like some weak prey, eager to be vanquished but still putting up a fight. It’s miraculous how, even after all those toasts in their honor, their bodies are willing and ready. Brock never fails to get him hard, and he’s elated to know that it works both ways. Elated to feel those strong hands pulling at his hair, his collar, his belt. Even when it’s sweet, it’s rough. He’s ravished so tenderly each and every time.

His glasses askew, he grins as Brock drags his lips up his stomach, his chest, his neck. His toes curl and he can’t help the way he laughs. Joy. How strange.

“You gonna make an honest man out of me, darling?” he asks, biting his lower lip.

“Even if it takes forever, Doc.”

**Author's Note:**

> cries gay tears
> 
> weddings is good


End file.
